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THE SURGEON

KARL HILL
 Copyright © 2023 Karl Hill

The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted
by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be
reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior
permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.bloodhoundbooks.com

Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8968-5

 CONTENTS

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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Closure

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A note from the publisher
 CHAPTER ONE

S creaming? Laughter? Something. He could not be sure. A noise,

on the periphery of his senses. It woke him. Startled him.
Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps not. Either way, it scared him.
He lay, blanket stretched up to his nose, eyes wide open. The dark
was a solid thing. Like black concrete. Like he was at the bottom of
a deep hole. Like he was in a tomb, locked away, where the dead
slept. He was eight years old. In the depths of the night, his
imagination dredged up things monstrous and fearful.
He kept perfectly still. He thought, if he moved, then he would be
noticed, and the darkness would stir, and something terrible might
morph from the shadows. A sound filled his head – his heartbeat. He
strained to listen.
Another sound. From downstairs. The kitchen. A man’s voice.
Deep and rumbling. Like thunder. Like the worst storm. Shouting
something, the words unclear. But the tone behind the words was
clear enough. He knew anger when he heard it. This was worse than
anger. This was… the noise a monster might make, from the back of
a cave, or from the corner of a lightless cellar. A wicked noise, he
thought. It scared him more than the darkness. He jerked round,
fumbling for the bedside lamp, found the switch. Suddenly, the room
was bathed in soft light. Familiar images sprang into being. An
armchair, and on it, sitting lopsided, a large stuffed Mickey Mouse,
smiling his smile. There, the dressing table, upon which, standing in
a neat line, Star Wars figures. The tall single wardrobe. In a corner,
a big Scalextric box.
He sat up, remained still. He realised he was holding his breath.
He exhaled, quiet as a whisper. Listening.
Now, other noises. Normal noises. The faint creak and groan of
an old house in the knuckle of winter. A breeze causing the trees
outside to sway and leaves to rustle.
And then… A sound he recognised, but out of place. His breath
caught. His heart pulsed. With exquisite care, he pulled back the
covers, swivelled round, placed his feet on the carpet. The air was
freezing cold. He shivered. His dressing gown hung from the
wardrobe door. He went over, creeping on his toes, shuffled it on,
and stood, motionless, facing the drawn curtains of his bedroom
window.
He waited. Two seconds. Then it came again. He gasped. The
sound was distinctive. He had heard it a thousand times – the gate
at the back garden being pulled open. It was stiff, and sagged on its
hinges, the bottom scraping on the flagstones, requiring effort to
shift.
He went over. He opened the curtains. The sky was clear,
unobscured by cloud, filled with a million stars. The moon
shimmered, round and silver-grey. The back gate opened to a
narrow lane. A single lamp provided illumination, casting a pale-
yellow glow.
He looked down. There! A figure, its back to him. Wearing a long
black coat. A sliver of darkness. A shadow in the shadows. Hunched
forward, both hands on the latch. Tugging. With every tug, the gate
scraped open another few inches. The figure stopped, became still.
Another two seconds. It straightened, and with deliberation, turned,
and looked up.
A face, bone-white. A man’s face. Their eyes met. Eyes black as
sockets. The man raised an arm, pointed. His lips quivered into a
smile, revealing teeth like tiny pearls. The words he spoke were soft
and clear.
“I see you.”
The man remained motionless. He stood, in that strange way,
pointing. Then, in a swirl of movement, he turned, grasped the gate,
wrenched it open, and disappeared out into the lane and away. Like
a phantom.

He stood at the window. His breath had steamed the glass up. His
mouth was dry. His body trembled. He stepped away. The curtains
fell back, hiding the moon and the stars and the frosty trees. He had
seen a man in the back garden. Coming from the house, he
assumed. Where else? He also assumed it was the man’s raised
voice he had heard, from the kitchen downstairs.
He made his way to the bedroom door. The fear he felt for
himself, suddenly, was eclipsed by the fear he felt for someone else.
His mother.
He opened the door, went out onto the top landing. Silence. He
made his slow, careful way down the stairs. One step, two steps. On
his tiptoes. The staircase creaked. He knew the creaks by heart. He
gripped the banister. He got to the bottom. Before him, a short hall.
Beyond, the kitchen. He got to the kitchen door, opened it.
And from that moment, his world changed.
 CHAPTER TWO
TWENTY YEARS LATER

C hance. Or something more maybe. He couldn’t be sure. He

wasn’t sure of anything. And yet…
Saturday afternoon. He was sitting outside a coffee shop. It was
warm enough for him to do this. Warm enough for a T-shirt. There
was no wind, not even a breeze. A stillness seemed to have settled
on the world. The coffee was strong. And good. And cheap, which
made it better. Which was why he came to this particular place. It
was the cheapest place he knew. Today, he decided to hit the high
life, and bought a croissant, warmed up, and buttered. Plus, at the
side of the plate, there was a miniature pot of strawberry jam. He
hadn’t asked for it. It was complimentary. He didn’t like jam on his
croissant. It made it too sweet.
He was reading a book he’d picked up from the library. Some
inane crime thriller. Instantly forgettable garbage. He really had no
idea why he had chosen it. But he had. And because he had, he felt
compelled to read the damn thing, from cover to cover. A flaw of the
mind, according to one of the many psychiatrists he had seen.
Compulsive behaviour. Undoubtedly a manifest of earlier shocking
events.
 At the specific moment, at the crucial time, he could have had his
head down, eyes glued to the book. Or he could have been looking
in the opposite direction. Or he might have been distracted by the
people sitting at the next table. Or he might have gone to the loo. A
thousand mights or maybes. But he hadn’t been doing any of these.
Perhaps it was fate. But at that moment, between lifting the coffee
cup to his lips, and glancing at the adjacent street, he saw
something which made him stop. Made him freeze. And an old
memory came surging back.
He stared.
His attention was focused on a man, strolling past in no apparent
hurry. In particular, the man’s face. The man walked by, oblivious to
the attention, disappearing down the street, and was gone.
He placed the coffee carefully back on its saucer, closed the
book, stood, and followed.
Thus the next chapter of his life began.
 CHAPTER THREE

A letter had arrived.

Jonathan Stark, upon returning to his flat, had picked it up
off the doormat, and placed it in the centre of the kitchen table. The
postman had been early. On those occasions when Stark received
mail, it was usually after work. Perhaps the postman was new.
Perhaps the postman had been told to shift up a gear. Perhaps
anything. Stark didn’t care. He was too excited to ponder the
inconsistencies of the Royal Mail.
It was 7am. Stark had been for a three-mile run. He liked to go
early. It set him up for the day ahead. If he missed a run, he felt
stale. He started work at 8.30, giving him time for a shower and
some coffee and toast and perhaps a little fruit. Maybe a banana.
His nod to ‘five a day’.
But this particular morning, the shower and the breakfast would
wait. Not the coffee, however. He would freely admit he was a coffee
addict, liking it black and strong, and lots of it. Plus, he had invested
in a rather complicated coffee machine. A rare display of
extravagance, given the strict confines of his budget. The air in his
tiny one-bedroomed flat was now rich with the scent of freshly
ground coffee beans. He sat at the kitchen table, dripping sweat,
sipping full roast from a mug bearing a colourful picture of Iron Man.
He couldn’t remember precisely how he got it, but it was the only
mug he had, and provided it didn’t leak, and it did the job, then it
hardly mattered.
The moment was everything, to be savoured. The seconds before
elation or profound disappointment. He rarely got letters. And if he
did, they were usually bills. Rent demands. Unpleasant reminders
from the bank. Other such shit. He knew exactly who had sent this
one, because he was expecting it, and wasn’t expecting anything
from anyone else. A plain, standard white envelope, with a window-
box, and in the window-box, his name and address neatly typed.
Bearing a first-class stamp. That was a good sign. A minor victory. It
meant the sender was prepared to spend a little money on him.
Then again, he thought, maybe they sent everything first class.
Perhaps second class from a prestigious law firm was poor show. It
was easy to overthink such things.
He licked his lips. They were salty. He got up, pulled a dish towel
from a hook on the wall, dabbed his face. He sat back down. The
coffee tasted particularly fine this morning. It was summer. The day
looked like it would turn out warm and bright. His run earlier had
been smooth and pain free. He could have run all day. The omens
were there. He felt something good was going to happen. Irrational,
he knew. But the response had been quick. He’d only sent the
application off four days before. And here was the reply, before him
on the kitchen table. Neatly packaged in its little white envelope.
Either yes or no. That simple.
He took a deep breath, wiped sweat from his eyes, and tore it
open, pulled out the letter. It was an A4 sheet, cream-coloured,
folded into three precise sections. Looked expensive. Felt expensive.
He couldn’t keep the tremble from his hand. He took another
calming breath, focused, laid the folded letter on the table.
Suddenly, he didn’t want to read its contents. He had been down
this road before, years ago. Five years, to be exact. Receiving
rejection letters. The hope, the disappointment. He was well
practised. He would know in a single glance. If it was three lines or
less, then it was too damned short. And short meant ‘no’. Beginning
with We regret to advise you, ending in We wish you all the best for
the future.
He picked the letter up, and with care, unfolded it.
And stared.
First thing. It wasn’t typed. It was handwritten. Looked like ink
from an old-fashioned nib pen. This shocked him. This was
something new.
Second thing. It wasn’t the factory-standard three lines. It was a
whole goddamned page.
And the best thing of all – it started with the words We would be
very interested…
He took a gulp of coffee. He’d never tasted better. His heart
sang. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
The omens were true.
Today was the day.
 CHAPTER FOUR

“I can’t do this on my own.”

“Of course you can.” She laughed. A light tinkling sound.
When his sister laughed, Stark’s heart always melted. “But seeing as
it’s you,” she said, “I could make an exception.”
“That’s very noble of you. I am flattered, truly.” He did his best to
keep the humour from his voice. “I have to cut the right impression.
These guys. Snake-oil salesmen. They could sell me anything. A
tartan three-piece suit, for example. Too long in the legs, too short
in the arms. I could end up working in the circus, instead of a law
firm.”
Laughter again. “I rather think you’d look quite fetching in tartan.
Like one of those vaudeville comedians. And baggy trousers are
absolutely the rage. Hadn’t you heard?”
“I hadn’t.”
“Tush, little brother. You have to keep up with the times. I’ll go
with you on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“You buy the coffees.”
“Deal.”
“And a pastry.”
 “You drive a hard bargain. That’s two conditions, by the way.”
“Typical lawyer. I’m not counting. Lack of pastry is a deal
breaker.”
“What type?”
“Not sure. Apple Danish. Or maybe carrot cake. Or an empire
biscuit.”
“Very well. Fashion, it seems, has a price.”
“Yup. Like everything, dude. Like everything.”

Stark met his sister at one of Glasgow’s biggest shopping complexes.

A sprawling high-sided structure, shaped – so it was claimed – like a
winding river. Stark, who detested such places, saw it merely as one
long concrete monstrosity, devoid of any charm or character.
Nevertheless, he needed a damned suit. He couldn’t turn up for his
interview in somewhat faded joggers and sweat top. Nor his work
clothes. Stark was working temporary, grinding out a nine-hour shift
at a soft-drink bottling plant in the arse end of Glasgow, his primary
function to load and unload crates of bottles and cans, and sweep
up broken glass from the factory floor. Temporary. It was the latest
of a long line of shit-end jobs. He’d being doing it for eight months,
and the way things were going, he’d be doing it forever, and
“temporary” was blossoming into “permanent”.
Until the letter.
It was Saturday morning. The place was packed. The rendezvous
was outside a particular menswear shop. He saw Maggie
immediately. An artful tangle of dark hair, bright grey eyes alight
with inquisitive intelligence. For the occasion, and perhaps with
reference to their telephone conversation, she wore bright tartan
trousers, and an off-white, twill jacket a size too large. Stark allowed
himself a wry smile. The joke was on him.
She hugged him, then held him at arm’s length, gave him a
reproachful glare.
“The only time I hear from my little brother is when he wants
something.”
“This is true,” he said. “I use you mercilessly.”
She inspected him with a critical eye. “You’ll need to shave. You
can’t go to a job interview with a beard.”
“I like my beard.”
“But it doesn’t like you. Maybe even a haircut. We need to lose
the unwashed yeti look.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you
sorted.”
He grinned back. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“Onwards then.” She laughed her infectious laugh. “Into the
breach.”
“Unto the breach, I think,” said Stark.
“Unto, into,” replied Maggie. “It hardly matters. I’ll bet
Shakespeare didn’t have an awful bloody beard like yours.”
There was little Stark could add to the comment.

The suit was chosen. Measurements were taken, minor alterations

required. It would be ready to be picked up next day. A dark,
somewhat sombre look, decided Stark. Bordering on funereal. But
Maggie had given it the thumbs up, so he guessed it was okay. The
price, in his estimation, was staggering. But what the hell. And as
Maggie explained, as if she were addressing a simple instruction to a
small child, good fashion comes at a price. He didn’t quite
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